


Work in Progress

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Erotica, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Post-War, Second War with Voldemort, Slash, The Quidditch Pitch: The Changing Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-04
Updated: 2008-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-27 16:12:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10812450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: After a year on the run, Dean Thomas is tired of hiding. Does he have the courage to risk the loss of his best friend for a chance at something more? Dean/Seamus, mentions of Dean/Luna Ted/Andromeda, Dean/Ginny among others.*Note* This originally appeared as a drabble (Mates) but has been expanded to a multi-chapter.





	1. Mates

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Written for[ **oncelikeshari**](http://oncelikeshari.livejournal.com/), who wanted wank of the good kind. I know she was hoping for fun, but this came out angsty.

It helped him sleep, or a least that’s how he tried to justify it. It helped him not to think of his friend, his father figure, the one person who made him believe that it was all going to be all right in the end. Ted was dead, gone forever and Dean knew that he was damned lucky to be alive, even as he tried to forget the guilt that would now always be with him.

Griphook was nowhere near as good company—he seemed to be taking the loss of his companion even worse than Dean was, and Dean remembered how he and Ted used to speculate about the bond that the strange creatures had shared, giving the appearance of an old bickering married couple.

Ted could always make him laugh, even if it came with a shudder as he tried not to imagine goblin sexuality. Then this look would cross Ted’s face, and Dean knew that he envied the pair— _at least they were running together_ —that Ted missed his wife terribly and maybe he knew he’d never see her again. Ted had talked of his wife from time to time, especially when they were lucky enough to get a bit of alcohol to take the edge off. She had seemed a remarkable woman—one who gave up everything she'd been for love. Those nights, Dean would sometimes hear rustlings in the sleeping bag next to him, a muffled groan and a whispered name. Dean envied Ted a bit, in spite of his visible pain at their separation. He wondered how Ted had ever got the courage to reach out for a woman completely out of his reach, and how it felt to be lucky enough to succeed.

He wondered if he’d ever get the courage to reach out for the unreachable, to just finally _say_ it— _I love you, mate_ —and brace for the inevitable rejection and the loss of his best friend. It could go the other way, but Dean had trouble manufacturing that kind of hope in a place like this. Still, he had a vivid imagination, and thoughts of those sorts invariably led him here, with his cock in his hand and thoughts of an impish smile, of a compact, pale, _bloody gorgeous_ body moving over his, of twinkling brown eyes, a musical voice and a laugh that turned the dullest day into an adventure. He promised himself that one day—if he got out of this alive—he’d _know._


	2. Longing

  
Author's notes: Turns out that I had much more to say about Dean and Seamus. I hope you enjoy!  


* * *

It hadn’t come out quite the way he expected, he had to admit.  A drunken victory party, of all things.  Dean had been encouraged by the way that Seamus had roared in happiness and launched himself at him, throwing his arms around him and holding him slightly longer than made sense (especially considering they in front of a group of friends and about to embark on a battle.)  And _god_ —that roar had nearly done him in, hadn’t it?  Maybe Dean fought more fiercely because he suddenly had hope inside—some big powerful silvery thing, possibly a cousin to his Patronus—ready to burst out of him at any moment.

When he finally located his best friend in the aftermath, it took everything he had not to grab him and kiss him then and there, which hardly seemed appropriate given the crowd around them and the cries of the grieving and wounded.  The moment passed around the same time that Dean caught sight of Ted’s daughter lying next to her husband among the victims.  The loss of Ted and a big part of his legacy hit Dean like a ton of bricks. 

It took time to count up the dead, to tend to the wounded and come to terms with the cost of the victory.  Dean had to turn away from the sight of George Weasley looking lost and bewildered as he stood over his dead twin, not to mention his old girlfriend (one of the strongest people he knew) holding her brother’s cold hand as tears streamed down her cheeks. 

The victory party started much later that night, and actually began as a toast for the dead.   By the time that Dean had taken a shot for Fred, for Colin, for Ted and his daughter, for Professors Lupin, Dumbledore, and Moody, and finally even a grudging one for Snape, he was quite thoroughly pissed.  Of course, not quite as badly pissed as Seamus, who was quite a bit shorter than him (the sodding leprechaun) though he liked to brag about how well he could hold his liquor.  They stumbled out of the common room and up the stairs to their old dorm, which was a bit more crowded than normal due to all the old Gryffindors hanging around.  They collapsed on Seamus’ bed, polishing off the bottle and watching the hangings spin.

“Missed you, mate,” Seamus said, nudging Dean painfully in the chest with his elbow.  “Wasn’t as much fun with just Neville.  Too easy to make him blush, even if it’s just mentioning that Vicky Frobisher has developed some nice tits.”

Dean laughed, feeling the necessity to add, “Well, you make me blush too, you great prat.  It’s just harder to tell.”

And there it was--that impish grin he’d been focusing on during his darkest moments, and Seamus made it even better by repeating himself. “Seriously, mate.  I...I missed you.”

“Me too,” Dean said, growing very, very still, wondering if _this_ was finally his moment.   He’d faced Death Eaters and torture and starvation and cold and Malfoy’s fucking dungeon and a pack of hungry wolves, for that matter.  What was he afraid of? 

Seamus threw out his arms, singing a verse from a nonsensical and slightly bawdy song about Quidditch, and then got up on an elbow to look at Dean, demanding,  “Tell me _everything_ that happened while you were gone.”

The words were on the tip of Dean’s tongue, he felt his stomach constrict and his heart speed up and…the moment slipped away, and he sighed, ruffling Seamus’ hair affectionately. 

“Too long a tale, mate.  Maybe later.”

“Aye,” Seamus said, dropping his head back onto his pillow and closing his eyes.  “Just—glad yer back.  Don’t scare me like that again, ye daft git.”

Dean lay back too, hearing the unspoken affection in Seamus’ words but not daring to interpret them in the way that he wanted.  After a long silence, though, the words came out on their own.  “I love you, mate,” he said quietly. 

The silence stretched on, and Dean felt absolutely incapable of breathing during all of it. 

“Love you, too, man,” Seamus finally replied sleepily. 

Dean lay completely still, his mind whirring madly.  Finally, he worked up the nerve to sit up slightly and look down at the man beside him—the object of so much worry and longing.

_Snoring._

_Drooling,_ even. _  
_  
But at least this gave Dean the opportunity to look his fill at him; at the changes eight months had wrought.  The former childish roundness in his face had sharpened, either from age or stress – well, certainly stress had something to do with it, Seamus face had been rendered almost unrecognizable from an apparent beating even before the battle, though that had been corrected as soon as he had access to medical attention.  The sparse hair on his chin had thickened too, he was well on his way to being able to call his scraggly patches a proper beard, and the thought brought a smile to Dean’s face.

It hit him again--that thrilling and terrifying feeling that welled up inside sometimes as he looked at his friend. That _thing_ that meant so much more than the fact that most of the time Seamus could make him feel better just by talking to him or laughing with him and that sometimes when Dean looked at his friend all the blood in his body would rush to his groin or that Seamus was always the first face he looked for in a crowd.

_You know damn well what that feeling is; you’ve known it for months now._   And now he was finally here again, close enough to touch, and maybe it was the liquor, but Dean was feeling lightheaded, his heart was pounding in his ears, and he felt an overwhelming urge to press a kiss onto Seamus’ open mouth. 

But _no_ – that wasn’t a cool thing to do (even if Seamus might never find out about it) and Dean bloody well knew it. 

_Tempting, as hell, though._  
   
“ _Nox,”_ he said, putting Seamus’ lit wand under his pillow and turning his back on his friend to face the curtains.  He was asleep within moments.


	3. Confession

The next day, Seamus didn’t seem to treat Dean any differently, so Dean assumed that Seamus hadn’t really heard him, or if he _had,_ hadn’t taken him seriously. Naturally he was relieved, but a bit disappointed, too. He was going to have to work up the nerve all over again, or forget about it, which he wasn’t quite willing to do.

Over breakfast, he got an answer (of sorts) when hangover stories were traded by people who found them preferable to discussing the more depressing aspects of the day before.

When Dean joined in and teased Seamus about his singing voice, Seamus countered with the fact that Dean had confessed his undying love. Dean was struck dumb momentarily. That he’d heard and almost understood and was now joking about it…

He laughed along, joining in with the rest of the stories, but it bothered him. It became clear to Dean that there wasn’t much more he could do at the school, and that it was well past time that he returned to his (probably panicked) family, so he went back up to the dorm, taking one last look around. Apparently, Seamus had noticed his increasingly melancholy mood, because he was there within moments, asking, “All right, then, mate?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Just taking one more look around.”

“But you just got here!” Seamus exclaimed.

“No, Seamus, I’ve gotta go home,” Dean said heavily.

“But _why?”_

“I’m coming back next year. No way I’d pass my NEWTs, so what’s the point of finishing up this year? I’ll come back next year, and I’ll wager I won’t be the only one. Besides, my family needs to know what happened.”

“But-” Seamus seemed to deflate, and Dean found himself clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“Really wish we could have spent the last year together, mate. Never imagined missing it—but we’ll still hang out together sometimes, I promise.” He refused to bring up the plans they’d made over the years, of a flat of their own, of new jobs and endless weekends of boozing and shagging myriads of fit, faceless birds. What was he going to do, _lie,_ and say it all would wait a year?

Dean, now grown quite used to leaving places with very little fuss, grabbed his bag off the floor and got ready to go downstairs and out the front gate.

Seamus’ unexpectedly fierce hug changed Dean's mind.

He dropped his bag, resting his chin on top of his friend’s head, closing his eyes as he held onto the moment. The next words came out with very little effort. “I meant it.”

Seamus stiffened in his arms, and Dean pulled away, wanting to look anywhere but at Seamus’ familiar, beloved face. Of course, he didn’t have much choice in the matter.

“Meant what?” Seamus asked quietly, though Dean suspected he already knew the answer. Seamus was doing his best to avoid his eyes, wasn’t he?

“What I said last night,” Dean replied with a sigh, turning and walking toward the window. It was easier to talk with his back turned, and the familiar view gave him courage. “Declaring my undying love for you and all that shite. You joked about it this morning, but I was dead serious.”

He felt tension gathering in the back of his neck as the silence stretched out, so much so that by the time Seamus spoke, he nearly jumped in reaction.

“You know I love you, too, man—I said as much. You’re my best mate, like a—”

Dean spun around angrily. _“Not_ like a brother. In _every_ way, Seamus. You might as well know, because when it comes down to it, and you’ve faced your worst fears, hypocrisy becomes impossible to swallow. I’m done lying to myself. I’m fucking sick of hiding. Sick of feeling ashamed.”

“But—”

“But what, Seamus? The ideal moment for you to throw yourself on me and kiss me passed a few minutes ago. Not that I ever really expected it, mind you.”

He strode across the room in a few long steps, picking up his bag again.

Seamus sputtered, “But Dean…you can’t be a…a…I mean, you like _girls. I_ like girls. We've liked some of the same girls. What the hell are you trying to pull, man?”

Dean sighed, looking fixedly at his worn boots on the floor, his shoulders hunched. He replied in a low, deliberate tone, hardly moving his lips. “It’s not that simple. Yes, I like girls. Yes, I know you like girls. I’m not stupid, you daft git! It took me years to realize that other blokes didn’t feel their heart pounding when they saw their best mate in a crowd. That they didn't think about him from the moment they woke up until they fell asleep. That they didn’t spend their summers drawing endless variations of the same smile, just to be able to see it for a few minutes. It’s _you,_ Shay, everything about you. I can’t help it—it’s just always been that way. I could forget, it, ignore it, find some pretty girl and settle down and probably be really happy. But I’d rather have you.”

Seamus didn’t reply, and when Dean chanced a glance over at him, he seemed horrified. It was tempting to just say; ‘forget I said anything,’ and the words almost did come out of Dean’s lips, but he stopped himself. No matter what, he was glad.

Instead, he sighed, throwing his bag over his shoulder again.

“Dean…”

“What?”

“When you say you want to have me…”

_“What?”_

“You don’t really mean…”

Dean looked over at Seamus exasperatedly. _“Yes,_ dammit!”

“But…”

“What?”

“I’ve no interest in being buggered.”

Dean laughed then, he couldn’t help it, though he suspected there was a bit of hysteria to it. Maybe it had been a mistake to say anything during such a stressful time. Maybe he should have just forgot it altogether. Because there was no way in hell that Seamus and himself could pick up their previous friendship after this. He’d thought he was aware of the risks, but now that he was faced with them, he wondered if unburdening himself was worth it after all. He shook his head.

“Only _you_ would take every thing I just said and make it about _that,_ Seamus. It’s not that fucking simple.” He straightened his shoulders, walking determinedly to the door. “I’ll write you once I get home. Or better yet, you write to me and we’ll hang out some time or something.

He couldn’t help once last parting shot. “And don’t worry, Finnegan, your arse is perfectly safe from me.”

He’d held his breath as he stepped through the portrait hole and all the way down the corridor, praying that he’d be called back.

The silence was deafening.


	4. Remembrance

“Mrs. Tonks?”  Dean Thomas said as the striking woman with the dark circles under her eyes opened the door, eyeing him warily. 

“Yes, I am, and what may I do for you, Mr…?“  she answered, in a clipped formal tone, though the way she moved to pat down her hair and straightened her blouse told Dean that it was taking a great deal of effort for her to compose herself . 

“Thomas, _Dean_ _Thomas,_ ma’am,” he said, holding out his hand. 

The door widened a bit, and he saw in her face that she recognized the name. 

“I’ve been looking for you for some time.  I saw you at the…er…the castle, but you left before I got a chance to…”

The reminder of the battle caused a flash of pain to cross her face.  Dean continued, neglecting to add that he’d attended her daughter’s funeral too--not only as a way to honor Ted, but in the hopes of  meeting his wife, though she’d left before he got a chance to push through the crush and talk to her.  “I need to speak to you.”

“This isn’t the best time,” she said, narrowing the gap in the door slightly. 

“I know, and I’m sorry, but I have something important to give you.”

She paused, looking him up and down and then sighed, opening the door fully and making a gesture of welcome. 

Dean stepped inside, looking around.  The house was impossibly clean, decorated in bright colors that might have seemed welcoming at some point if the place hadn’t had an air of sorrow hanging over everything.  He moved toward the sofa as she made a perfunctory offer of tea, which he accepted.  Next to the sofa, in an old fashioned cradle that looked as though it had been used and loved by at least six generations, lay a small baby with fair skin, a pointed chin, and a shock of vivid purple hair.  Dean resisted the urge to reach out and touch it. 

“My grandson,” Mrs. Tonks said as she levitated a tray before herself, setting it on a low table. 

“He’s…er…cute,” Dean observed, never quite knowing how to react to babies, especially when it was a bad idea to point out any resemblance to the three people he seemed to most favor. 

“Won’t you have a seat, Mr. Thomas?" she asked, gesturing toward the sofa. 

He complied, and his hostess followed suit, sitting ramrod straight on the edge of the cushion as she went through the ritual of pouring.  Dean remembered what Ted had said of her upbringing, and he found himself smiling at her formality, knowing that it was, in reality, an act she did not enjoy playing.

She handed him his cup and he held it, wondering where to begin while she looked at him expectantly.

“I…er, I dunno if you knew, but…well, first of all, I’d like to offer my condolences on your daughter.  I didn’t know her all that well, but Professor Lupin was my favorite teacher and I think—well, if she –she must have been a special woman.”

“Thank you,” Andromeda said quietly, her eyes darting to the cradle sitting on the floor. 

“Also about Ted—I mean, Mr. Tonks.”

“Ted,” she corrected. 

“Yeah, Ted.”  Dean grinned as his old friend’s face came to mind, and when he met his hostess’ eyes, he found a smile quirking at the corner of her mouth, too.   “I—we spent a lot of time together.  He was a good man.”

“Yes, he was,” she agreed. 

“Saved my life—twice,” Dean added.  “And I just—well, he wrote _this,_ one night, and was trying to get it to you, but it wasn’t safe to use the mail.  I found it, in his things.  I thought you’d want it.”  He handed her a worn, sealed envelope, which she took with a shaking hand.

“I-”  she choked, holding the envelope to her breast. 

Dean stood up. “I reckon I’d better let you read that…” he started, but she held out a hand in protest.   

“No, Mr. Thomas—Dean, please stay, I just…”

“Go ahead," he said, and sat back down on the couch as she left in the direction of what he assumed were bedrooms. 

As Dean waited, he sipped his tea, eventually rummaging in his bag for his sketchbook and the small bundle of things Ted carried around with him.  Placing the bundle on the table, he opened the sketchbook to the portraits he planned on giving to Ted’s wife.  Eventually, he heard stirring from the floor beside the couch, and he stood up to look down on the baby, instinctively rocking the cradle.  It worked for a time, but the baby—it was a boy, he remembered, opened grey eyes and looked at him curiously.  Dean gave into the temptation and touched the bright splash of hair, which turned blue under his fingertips, much to Dean’s surprise and amusement.  “Talented little bugger, aren’t you?” he said, and the baby mirrored his grin, reaching up to grab his finger.

By the time Andromeda returned, Dean was holding the baby on his lap, showing him a sketch of his grandfather, though not quite close enough for the baby to rip the paper.  Dean looked up at her apologetically, saying,  “Little bloke didn’t want to stay in the cradle, I hope you don’t…”

“Thank you, Dean,” Andromeda said, giving him a warm smile and taking the baby off his hands.  Upon closer examination, Dean noticed that her eyes were decidedly puffy, and that her face was slightly damp, as if she had splashed water on it.   

“So what’s his name, then?”  Dean asked.

Andromeda took a deep breath, holding the baby tightly and kissing the top of his head.  “Teddy.”

He nodded in approval.  “He was really looking forward to meeting him.  Or _it,_ as it was at the time."  Dean let out a deep breath, running his hands over his face in an effort to get some control over his emotions.   "Christ, it’s so weird, seeing you.  I feel like I know you.  You’re just as beautiful as he said.”

A tear made its way out of Andromeda’s eye, and Dean impulsively stood up and sat down next to her, not knowing whether to pat her hand or say something to cheer her up.  Nothing came to mind except, “He loved you so much.”

“I know,” she said, sniffing a bit and setting the baby down on his stomach, where he promptly began clutching at the plush rug and trying so scoot forward.  “He wants so badly to get moving,” she said.  “Hard to tell now, but I think he’s got a bit more grace than his mum.  He certainly got his dad’s long legs.”

Dean reached over to the table for the tea towel, offering it to her as tears flowed freely from her eyes. 

“He loved you, too,” Andromeda said.  “He said as much.  Told me he wouldn’t have changed anything for the world, that he'd had a great life."

Dean found his eyes blurring.  “He was more of a Dad to me than my own.  Well, either of them, actually. My real dad took off, and my stepdad—well, he didn’t have much use for me.  But Ted—"

“Yes,” Andromeda sighed.  “He had the biggest heart.”

“Yeah, he did at that,” Dean agreed, and there was a few moment's silence where he wondered if he was overstaying his welcome. “Well, anyway, ma'am, if you ever need anything—”  

Andromeda wiped her eyes, catching sight of the sketchbook opened on the table.  She sucked in a breath as she recognized the laughing face pictured, her mouth twitching into a smile.

“Oh,” she cried, touching the paper reverently.  “He got so thin.” 

“Yeah, well, that was before the Goblins arrived and taught us how to fish,” Dean explained.  “Plus, I suspect he kept refilling my plate at his own expense. Always spoke of how I was a growing lad, though I tried to tell him that I'd prefer _not_ to get any taller. But obviously, it wasn’t _all_ bad. I mean, there were some really good times.  You can have those, Mrs. Tonks.”

_“Andromeda,"_ she corrected, asking, "Are you certain you don’t want them?”

“I’ve got it all in my head, ma’am.  Never gonna forget him.  I promise.”

Andromeda nodded, another tear rolling down her cheek, making Dean decide to stop resisting the impulse to hug her.  She stiffened at first and then gave in, holding him tightly and weeping against his shoulder, giving Dean the perfect excuse to let his own tears fall freely. He felt that he’d finally got a chance to say a proper goodbye to his friend.  
  


	5. Unrequited

Dean opened his front door with a sigh, fully expecting another fifteen-year-old lothario, sniffing after his sister.  It had been quite a summer, and Dean would be very happy to get back to school the following month, if only to escape the madness of two adolescent girls who’d just discovered the opposite sex.  

Of course, it was much easier to worry about the intentions of nameless Muggle boys than to think of his own pathetic situation, but he was beginning to get over it.  He and Seamus had tried to get together a few times since the day after the battle, but it was so damn awkward that Dean was in no hurry to repeat them.  The first one had been his idea, the two subsequent ones Seamus’ and since then, Dean had been ignoring his friend’s letters.

Instead, he’d focused on his family and his plans for the future.  His Hogwarts letter came, he went to Diagon Alley for his last set of books, new robes, and finally, a wand, which he was growing almost as attached to as his old one.  He tried not to imagine what the dorm would be like without Seamus and Neville.  Well, Seamus in particular, but at least if Neville had been there, he wouldn’t have been the third wheel. It was going to be a very long year.  

Maybe he could hang out with Luna, though.  That thought cheered him, as he’d grown rather fond of her during their enforced confinement at Shell Cottage.

More than fond.

Which is why when he opened the door to her familiar dreamy face, looking for all the world as if she’d hitched a ride from a passing rainbow, he broke out into a grin and pulled her into his arms.

“Hello, love, how are you?”

“Goodness, Dean, but it’s been ages.  I wondered if you’d run into a Wrackspurt and forget all about me.  Or are you avoiding everyone?”

“The latter if anything,” he said.  “How could I ever forget you, Luna, Wrackspurts or not?”

She simply smiled, though anyone else would have pounced on his admission, instead walking through the door and looking around his house curiously.  

Dean tried to see things from her perspective, and wondered what she thought of the telly, the reclining leather chairs, the glass and chrome coffee table, and the vaguely art deco poster prints.  This was about the least magical-looking place he could think of.   He left for a moment to get her a drink, coming back with a lemon fizz.  

Luna, of course, seemed to find it all mildly interesting, but when she met his gaze after she sat down on the sofa, he knew he had her (relatively) undivided attention.  

“How’ve you been, love?” he finally asked.  “Your dad all right then?”

Luna sighed, and he suspected that with anyone else, she might have gone on about how busy she was with one scheme or another, but she said (after a moment’s thought), “Not quite the same as he used to be, but very happy to see me.  I imagine your family was, too.”

Dean nodded.  “Yeah, it was quite a scene.  Of course, I’m sure I’m getting on their nerves by now but…”

“We’re quite lucky,” she noted. “When you think about it.  When I think about people like Neville’s parents, who lost so much, it really puts it in perspective, doesn’t it?”

Dean nodded again, thinking of Mrs. Tonks and her grandson, and George Weasley.  What was a slightly bruised heart compared to complete devastation?  He sighed, shaking the image of Seamus’ horrified face out of his mind.  That was the only way that Dean ever saw him anymore, so he’d even lost the pleasure of drawing his smile.  Fortunately, he had several years worth of art pads if he ever cared to have a look.  Which usually did more harm than good, if he was going to be honest with himself.

“Sorry, what did you say, Luna?” he asked, realizing that she was observing him closely.

“Oh, I just wondered if you’d got your books yet.  I’m really looking forward to seeing you in some of my classes this year, Dean.  I’ve never really had classes with a friend before.”

 

“Yeah, me too,” he said.  He knew that Luna’s company might make the loss of Seamus’ a bit more bearable, and once again, he marveled at her clever mind.  He’d probably have trouble keeping up with her in spite of the fact that she’d missed most of her sixth year.

“I saw Seamus the other day,” she said, seemingly out of the blue, and not for the first time he wondered if she was capable of Legilimency.  He did a double take.

“Oh, yeah?” he asked in a forcibly calm voice, though he was ready to pounce on any small snippet of information.  

“Yes,” she replied.  “When I was buying my school things.  He was at the Leaky Cauldron, eating.  Or maybe he was only drinking—I just assumed his food hadn’t arrived yet, though there were several empty glasses in front of him.

Dean wanted to press her further, but as she probably would have found it notable if he let on that he hadn’t spoken to his supposed best friend for nearly six weeks, he contented himself with asking, “He was cool to you though, even though he was drinking?  He didn’t call you by that name you hate?”

“Oh, no,” Luna assured him.  “He hasn’t done that for years.”  She made an odd little smile and he wondered what she was thinking.  Sometimes he wondered if her vagueness was all an act, something like armor for her most vulnerable parts.  

“He asked about you,” she continued, picking up the remote control off the table and examining it curiously.  “Is this one of those computers I’ve heard about?”

Dean wanted to snatch it from her hand.  “Er, no.  That works the telly.  I’ll show you the computer later.  I wonder why he would ask you about me?” he couldn’t help saying.  “I mean—as far as he knows, we hardly know each other, right?”

Luna looked at him pointedly, and once again, he remembered that she would find it odd he hadn’t completely filled his best friend in on everything that had happened during their separation.”

“Well, we did arrive together that—that night, didn’t we?”

He nodded in agreement,  not really wanting to dwell on the horrors of the final battle, not to mention the false hope he’d had after Seamus embraced him.

Luna continued in a (deceptively?) breezy tone.  “Apparently, he’s been gathering bits and pieces of what happened to you from other people.”  She looked directly at him.  “Which makes me wonder why he hasn’t heard any of it from you, Dean.  Have you two had a row?  He certainly looked pleased to see you when we arrived at the  Room of Requirement that night.”

“Not a row, exactly—we just—well, we don’t exactly have as much in common as we used to.”

Luna gave him a long and (for her) hard look.  “So _he’s_ the one, then?  The one you spoke of when we—”

Dean couldn’t stop the words from leaving his mouth. “You didn’t tell him about that, did you Luna?”

She looked puzzled rather than hurt or angry, and he felt slightly better, though he still wanted to kick himself.

“No, Dean, that’s private, isn’t it?  I thought we’d agreed.  Of course, if you think it might make him feel jealous, I could always…”

_“No!_ No—I just-”

“Or are you worried that he’d wonder how you can be in love with him and still have…”

“No—it’s not that—I just-”

“You’re embarrassed, then?” she asked quietly.  “That it was me?”

“NO!”  Dean sighed heavily.  This girl ought to get a job as an Ministry interrogator.  If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was manipulating him into opening his heart.  “More along the idea of the second thing you said, I reckon.”

She gave him a soft, sad smile.  “I could always explain—if it ever came out, that is, and I don’t see why it would—that you didn’t love me and I didn’t love you but that we needed each other. “

Dean returned her smile, though he suspected his was even sadder.  “You really don’t need to worry about it, Luna.  It’s completely hopeless and I know it.  It’s just that if he heard about it, it would only succeed in confusing him more.”

He reached out to take her hand in his.  “Anyway, like you said, it’s private.  And it meant a lot to me, but I don’t think most people would really understand, would they?”

“No, I suppose not,” she said, giving a funny little laugh.  “Anyway, I feel better knowing that you weren’t in love with me.  I mean, I knew it, but to know that you were probably thinking of someone else doesn’t bother me.  I never really told you, but I think that—on my end, it was a reaction to what happened in the dungeon.”

Dean nodded.  “I know, it was terrifying—thought we were all done for.”

“Yes, and holding your hand in the dark helped, and maybe that was part of it—but in the dungeon, I finally had to face reality.  I had to accept that I was hopelessly in love with someone who would never feel the same way.”

“What? _Who?”_ Dean was stunned, mentally going through the occupants of the Dungeon in his mind.  “Draco?”

 The wry laugh that then came out of her would have sounded more at home coming from Ginny.  “Good heavens, no.   Fate is cruel sometimes, but not _that_ cruel.”

She met his eyes, and he found a sad, resigned look there, causing him to reach out and stroke her cheek.  

“Anyone could see he loved her when he kept screaming out her name like that.  As if everything that was being done to her was being done to him, too.   It would have been painful to listen to even if I hadn’t felt the way I do—or _did_ about him.  I knew it, of course—I’d _always_ known it, but it’s hard to convince your heart that it’s misguided, isn’t it?  Especially when it’s a mostly perfectly wonderful person, just the wrong one for you.”

Dean sighed and nodded, putting an arm around Luna.  So much of what she’d said at Shell Cottage made sense now, as did the hour they’d spent alone on the beach, ‘gathering driftwood.’

“Did you at least tell him, Dean?  I mean, I know that I never did, but in my case, I think it was the wise choice.  But you—you never know, do you?”

“I did.”

“And?”

Dean shook his head, looking down at Luna’s small hands folded in her lap.  It was amazing that they could remain so still when her spirit was so agitated.

She was watching him with sympathy in her eyes.  “Well, he did seem rather anxious to talk to you.  Perhaps you ought to see him?”

Dean shook his head again, this time with more vehemence.  “No—I fucked it all up and it’s never gonna be the same again.  I should have kept my mouth shut.  But—maybe this is better in the end.  I mean, it never really was what either of us thought it was—with me lying to myself and to him.  It was all an illusion.  And once you realize that, how can you go on?”

“Sometimes it feels better to fool yourself rather than face the truth,” Luna said. “But you’re right.  One should never lie to oneself for any length of time.  It only masks the pain, and you’re living in a dream.  A pleasant dream, but it can’t last, can it?”

She smiled tremulously and he leaned over to kiss her lightly on the lips.  “You’re amazing, Luna.  One of these days, someone equally amazing is going to realize it, and you’ll be loved as you should.  In the meantime, I’ll always have a place in my heart for you.  And a shoulder to lean on.”

\--

When she left, Dean took out his sketchbook and tried to capture her face.  It wasn’t a bad job, he thought, and he smiled as he turned to a blank page.  He wasn’t at all surprised to find himself drawing Seamus next, and even though the resulting portrait showed that horrified expression that had been haunting his dreams, Dean was pleased with his work.  It was real, it was true, and Dean was learning to live with it.

In the meantime, there was a life to be lived, and Dean intended to live it to the fullest.


	6. Surrealism

Dean wondered, sometimes, why he bothered with Hogsmeade Weekends any more.  When he was younger, it had been an escape, a few hours freedom of the restriction of the castle.  Now he’d had more freedom than he’d ever wanted, he knew that the castle, even partially demolished, was where he felt safest.  In fact, it would always be his favorite spot on Earth.  

Still, here he was, shaking his head at the changes in the town from the place that had seemed so magical as a kid.  Zonkos was gone, the Hog’s Head seemed even more popular than the Three Broomsticks, and whereas before the streets used to be filled with bright, shiny, excited students seeking a taste of independence, now everyone seemed tired and sad and just a bit wary.  

He sat down at a table in the Three Broomsticks, trying not to go nostalgic as he remembered his first hot Butterbeer here with Seamus.    Maybe that’s why it seemed such a letdown.  It just wasn’t as fun without him.  _Nothing_ was, really.  It would have been better if Luna had been here to keep him company, but she’d come down with a cold and chose to stay in.  For some odd reason, she thought it would be better to let her body heal naturally rather than take a dose of Pepper-up Potion.  But then again, that was just one of her little quirks, and he wouldn’t change her a bit.  She’d become his best friend in Seamus’ absence.

It always came back to Seamus, didn’t it?  He’d done his best to move on, but when somebody had been the most important part of our life for more than seven years, they weren’t easy to erase from your mind.  

_Especially when you're hopelessly in love with them._  

He sighed and sipped at his tea, withdrawing his sketchbook from his bag and looking through what he’d already done.  There were a lot fewer pictures of Seamus in there these days; he just didn’t have the heart any more.  Some of the ones in this book were done of fellow students he’d got to know since the beginning of school, and some were memories of his time on the run.  Here was McGonagall, looking twenty years older than she had before Dumbledore died, still looking stern and capable, but letting her pupils see the affection in her eyes more than she used to.  At least the students of his age group, anyway—or maybe she was just happy to see them alive.  

He flipped a page.  Pictured there was Luna gazing out at the lake, her eyes full of secrets.  Sometimes she shared them with him, but he suspected that no one would ever really know everything about her.  

Two pages later was Dennis Creevey, off in a corner, reading a book and looking a bit lost.  It was a only rough sketch because these days, whenever Dennis caught anyone looking at him he tended to disappear.  It was such a startling contrast from the bubbly, enthusiastic boy who made his first appearance in the Great Hall, soaked to the skin and beaming—that it always brought tears to Dean’s eyes.  

There was a rough sketch (from memory) of Hagrid carrying Harry’s limp body and another of Parvati looking fierce and locked in a duel with a Death Eater.  There were a few abortive attempts at Ted’s laughing face and one of the grandson Ted never got to meet.  

There were also a few more attempts at Seamus’ smile.   Dean just couldn’t get it right any more.  He closed the pad and pushed it across the table in disgust.  It almost seemed to be a dream when he heard a familiar brogue saying, “They can’t be _that_ bad, mate.”

He’d had no way to prepare for this, and he was sure that when he looked up at Seamus his eyes must have been voracious.  And there it was—that smile he’d been craving—stabbing at his heart.

Dean swallowed, his throat suddenly seeming parched and swollen.  “Better now, mate,” he said, and instantly regretted it.  Straightening his spine, he tried to compose his expression, saying, “Didn’t expect to see _you_ here, anyway.”

“Only way I could stand a chance at talking to you, seeing as how you haven’t answered my owls for _months,_ ” Seamus muttered.

“Oh, right, well…” Dean reached for the sketchbook, nearly desperate to stuff it into his bag, but Seamus grabbed it before he had a chance.

Dean made an attempt to snatch it back, but Seamus glared at him, holing the sketchpad as if it were a prize he’d won.  “This way you can’t leave, aye?  And maybe if I look at it…” Seamus set it down and opened it slowly.  “I’ll get to know a bit of what my best mate is thinking and feeling and doing, seeing as how he doesn’t want to tell me himself.

_Not your best friend any more,_ Dean wanted to say, but the words would have tasted like bile in his mouth.  “S’private.  Like reading a diary, right?  So give it over, why don’t you?”   

Seamus looked at him through raised brows.  “You think you’ve got any secrets from me, Thomas?” he asked incredulously, though he frowned, and added, “Apart from the obvious, that is.  You fancying my arse and all.  What, did you draw it in here, then?  He began flipping through the book quickly, and Dean wanted to punch the smug smile off his face.  How dare he bring it up as if it were a… _joke._

“Serve you right if I did, you wanker,” he spat, and wondered if, indeed he had drawn the Seamus of his fantasies in this particular book.

_No, but you_ did _draw someone else’s bare arse…_

“Give it over, Seamus.”

“No—now you've got me burning with curiosity,” Seamus retorted.

Dean’s arms were longer, but Seamus was a slippery little bugger, and Dean had to accept the inevitable with a resigned sigh.  He leaned back in his seat and waited for the inevitable explosion.

“Now there’s a fit bird,” Seamus remarked as he came to the picture in question, adding, “Who is she?”

Dean closed his eyes, wishing with all his might he’d bothered taking the Apparition test.  Fear of anything connected to the Ministry kept him from doing it, and it now prevented him from attempting it illegally.  “You don’t know her,” he said quietly, wondering how much of her face he’d actually drawn.  There was a slight chance that Seamus would assume it was one of those faceless naked women he used to draw when they were bored and pornography was hard to come by.

“There _is_ something familiar about her, though…wait, is this… _Loony?”_

“She hates that name,” Dean hissed.

“Sorry, force of habit, you know, and…wait…when did you see…she’s _starkers,_ isn’t she?  I thought you were queer?”

 

_“Thank you,_ Seamus,” Dean, said dryly, almost prepared to give up his sketchpad if he could only leave immediately.  “Thank you for stating it as only _you,_ in your infinite tact and wisdom could.”  
   
Seamus didn’t even respond, staringing at the sketch in question with his brows knit together.   “You, you…”

“You think I didn’t struggle with this, you daft prick?  You think I didn’t try everything I could to convince myself otherwise?  I’d spent nearly a year with my thoughts as company at night, I’d been scared shitless and lost a friend and lived in the most primitive and horrible conditions and I come back to civilization just in time to meet a girl, a _friend_ who’d been through a lot of what I had and worse.  We…that has _nothing_ to do with you, that was…that’ s none of your fucking business.  You were still the impossible dream at that point.”

“So you like both, then?” Seamus asked, making the same face he’d made when faced with a History of Magic test.

Dean gritted his teeth, losing patience.  “As I tried to explain to you months ago, this has to do with _you,_ and not your bits.  And you needn’t worry about it anyway, because I’m nearly over it.”

“Which is why you’re avoiding me,” Seamus said, turning the page once, twice, three times. He frowned, and Dean tried to peek over the top of the sketchpad to see what he was looking at, though it did him no good.  “When did I look like that, anyway?  I look as if I’ve seen Snape in his knickers or something.”

_Oh, that one, then._ “Or as if you’d just found out your best friend fancies your arse,” Dean said bitterly.  

Seamus took another look at the sketch and winced slightly.

“I—I know I was shocked, man, but you made me look…”

“ _Horrified_ is the word you're looking for, I believe ” Dean muttered.

“S’not how I felt,” Seamus insisted.  

“Could have fooled me.”

Seamus shook his head.  _“Shocked,_ ” he repeated.  “And you were gone before I had a chance to recover and think about what it meant.  Christ, man, you yerself said you had _years_ to think about it.  You gave me less than five fecking minutes.”

“I saw you two or three times after that, didn’t I?”

“Aye, and you were angry and uncomfortable as arse, and I was wondering how to bring up the whole thing and wanting to avoid it at the same time.  Come to think of it--any time I came near it, you changed the subject.  In fact, the last time you came to my house, I really tried to talk about it and you left right after, and ye haven’t said a word to me since.”

He had a point, but Dean wasn’t about to be sucked into what-ifs.  There were some things that were just reality, and he was determined to face them head-on.  “But the whole damn point was that if you felt anything at all for me, you would have thought of it before then, right?  So that means that all of those times I thought there was something between us, just below the surface, it was just my overactive imagination.  And it bloody well _hurt,_ man, and until I get past it, it's painful to be around you.

Seamus clenched his jaw and sighed.  “Don’t feel anything at all for you, of course not.  Haven’t had this sick feeling in my stomach for the past year because I knew you were out there, somewhere, scared and maybe hungry and cold, or worse yet, _dead._    Wasn’t feeling helpless and angry and terrified and only being able to do stupid things like mouth off to teachers and run into trouble headlong because maybe my helping some wee Hufflepuff get away from the Carrows was somehow helping you in the grand scheme of things.  Didn’t feel an ache in my chest every time I thought of something funny or interesting or uncharacteristically deep and then I’d turn to tell you—only to remember you weren’t there.  _Nothing_ felt right until you walked into the Room of Requirement, and then…well, this time you _chose_ to shut me out of your life, and that hurt even more.”

“I thought…” Dean started, but Seamus held up his hand to shut him up.

“I didn’t know what to do with what you said.  I still don’t. But I know that things just don’t _work_ without you.  So please, just give me a chance.  We’ll work something out, aye?”

“How do we work something out, exactly?  It hurts me to be with you and you hurt without me.”

“I don’t know, I was just thinking, maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe I’d…let you.”  

_“Let_ me?”  
   
“I mean, maybe I’d, er…give it a try.  _Us,_ I mean.  Though I still don’t want to—well, you know what I said that day—but the other stuff.”  Seamus made an awkward attempt to reach for Dean’s hand, but Dean jerked it away, hiding it under the table.

“Are you talking about _sex,_ Finnigan?”

Seamus, beet red and sweating a bit, (now that Dean allowed himself to really look at him) did some sort of strange combination of shaking his head and nodding, and Dean snorted, trying not to laugh.

“I think you’re missing the point, man. I don’t think this is something you can talk yourself into—though I really appreciate your trying. Not interested in a pity shag, to be perfectly honest.  But…I mean, I get what you’re saying.  I’ve been selfish, a real prick probably.  Cutting you off like that, I mean.  I only did it because I needed it—needed to resent you for a while, but this is my problem, not yours, right? So come on mate—let’s get the hell out of here before people start looking at us funny.  Maybe we can walk around a bit, catch up, maybe even toss a Quaffle around.”

Dean didn’t really want to see the look of relief on Seamus face, so he avoided his eyes as he took the sketchpad from him and put it into his bag.  He wasn’t planning on letting it out of his sight any time soon.

He’d hardly noticed that Seamus seemed oddly quiet as they walked through the deserted town, occasionally looking in shop windows.  After a while, though, Dean began to wonder why he was bothering to fill the silence when Seamus only responded in single words.

“What is it?”

“I just…I suppose I’m feeling a bit—I dunno—rejected, maybe.”

_What the hell?_ “Rejected?” Dean asked, stopping in his tracks just as they’d reached the deserted path going to the Shrieking Shack.  

“No, seriously, man, I get meself worked up to this big…thing, and you just dismiss it as though I’m stupid, as though none of it means anything. I don’t think you got what I was saying at all.”

Dean closed his eyes and sighed.  He’d really wanted to move past this.

“It _wasn’t_ pity, it was..I _do_ love you, I’ve said as much. Maybe I just don’t know how to classify it.  I mean, think about it—when you first heard what lads and lasses got up to when they made a baby, you probably thought it was disgusting, aye?  But then you sort of got used to the idea, and yer hormones took over and after a while it seemed like a pretty good idea.  And you didn’t just jump into it, either.  I wasn’t suggesting that we...well just have a go at each other.  I thought we might…you know, ease into it.  See how it feels.  I mean, yeah, so I feel all these different things when I look at you, and maybe I just haven’t been putting it all into the correct slots or something.”  He sniggered a bit at his unintended innuendo.    “You were always more…sensitive than I was, aye?  Which is probably why you got the girlfriend and all I got was the quick fuck behind me uncle’s pub.”

Dean was stunned, and for the silence stretched between them, their eyes locked, with Dean feeling numb and Seamus looking a bit shifty.

I _s he having me on?_ Dean wondered, afraid to hope too much.

Seamus ran his hands through his hair, finally breaking the impromptu staring contest.  “I mean, there’s got to be a reason my hands are shaking and my stomach is doing a jig, aye?  You went and put these pictures in my head—images of _us,_ and I’ll admit that for a while I resented you for it.  I reckon that’s why I couldn’t really talk to you when we met over the summer.”

Dean certainly could identify with the stomach remark, and his hands were shaking a bit, too.   He’d felt something like it that day in the dorm, though before long the pain and disappointment had turned it into weakness and nausea.  But this time there was an overpowering  sense of hope that was beginning to take hold of his body, making his skin suddenly seem overly tight--as though something huge was about to burst out of him.  He’d last experienced it just before the battle, when Seamus had run into his arms, and he remembered feeling at that moment that he was capable of anything.

“You’re—you _can’t t_ alk yourself into this sort of thing, Seamus,” he repeated.

“Probably true,” Seamus conceded, stepping towards him until he had to crane his neck to meet Dean’s eyes.  “But maybe there are other ways to persuade me.”  He’d stuffed his hands into his pockets, but he lowered his eyes to Dean’s mouth deliberately.  “Come on, man, bad enough you’ve turned me into a bloody poofter, you’re not going to make me stand on me tiptoes to kiss you?”

There it was--that treacherous hope, just waiting to be dashed and thoroughly destroy him.  Dean licked dry lips without even being aware of what he was doing, but he noticed Seamus’ eyes following the progress of his tongue in a way that looked something suspiciously like hunger.  A sense of calm unreality came over Dean as he bent forward.  He’d dreamed of doing this for so long, and to have it all but demanded of him was more than he could ever have hoped for.  It would have been criminal to let reality to spoil his fantasies, so he made up his mind to make a good job of it.  He reached up to stroke Seamus’ cheek, murmuring, “You’re really going to let me do this, then?”

Seamus grinned.  “No, not if you’re going to be torturing me with the waiting.  Maybe the birds like that sort of thing, but we blokes havena got the patience, have we?”

And _that_ was what had been missing, Dean thought.   The humor was just the thing to ease the tension and give him the courage to close the distance between them. Seamus met him halfway.  It wasn’t much, as kisses go—it seemed that their noses made more contact than their lips actually did.  But it was _Seamus,_ his best mate, his possible (was it actually _possible,_ after all?) lover and the love of his life.  It was something Dean knew he’d remember in vivid detail until the day he died.  He’d never forget he way that Seamus’ smile morphed into something of a pucker before he closed his eyes, the way that Seamus’ chapped lips had caught on his after they made contact, the way that Seamus kept his eyes closed as they parted, seeming to savor the experience.  He’d always remember the way that, when Seamus finally did open his eyes, his face had spread into a smile the likes of which Dean had never had the privilege of seeing before, one that had wonder and promise in it.   He couldn’t wait to sketch it, though he doubted he could do it justice.  

Of course, it didn’t have to be over, did it?  Dean reached up to bury long fingers in Seamus’ hair, wrapping his hand around the side of Seamus’ head and pulling him close, dropping the bag off his shoulder and putting his other arm around Seamus’ waist.  He bent his head again and Seamus raised his, and there was indescribable softness in the lips and hardness in the body, and warmth, and _stubble_ tickling his top lip, and the unique scent of Seamus surrounding him.

Seamus exhaled softly as their lips parted, muttering, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.  You may be on to something, here, mate.”

Dean laughed, marveling at the fact that he’d not only got back Seamus’ smile, but Seamus was _here,_ in his arms, willingly and apparently more than content.

Seamus initiated the third kiss, but Dean deepened it, running his tongue across Seamus’ top lip to encourage it to part and then sliding it inside to brush against the tip of Seamus’ own tongue.  Seamus’ entire body seemed to respond; his arms wrapped around Dean at the same time he stepped even closer.  His body was suddenly _everywhere,_ or maybe it just seemed that way because Dean was feeling a hard chest somewhere near the bottom of his ribs and a firm thigh working it’s way between his, and a familiar hand on his back—though instead of patting in sympathy or slapping with enthusiasm, it was stroking, kneading, pulling Dean close.

A noise nearby had them breaking apart, both of them panting and looking about somewhat guiltily.  Dean wanted to search for the source of the noise, but Seamus stopped him by taking his hand.  “Just an animal, most likely, and probably a good thing, too.  A few minutes more and we might have got arrested.”

Dean nodded, still feeling a bit shaky, and bent to pick up his abandoned bag off the ground.  “Yeah, probably time for me to be heading back anyway.  Want to see if they’ll let you in the castle for a game or two of snap?”

Seamus grinned in response, throwing an arm over Dean’s shoulder and clapping his back.  “Aye, that sounds just grand, mate.  I missed you, you great bloody git.  Can’t believe I have to wait another month to see you after this.”  

_Looks as if I’ve found my reason to look forward to Hogsmeade weekends again,_ Dean thought, and wondered if he’d ever manage to wipe the smile from his face.


	7. Blending

It’s just Seamus, he could have told himself, but knew that there was no way to put ‘just’ in front of anything about today. It was ‘just’ another Hogsmeade weekend, but after the events of the last one, his life had been changed, possibly forever. It was ‘just’ Seamus, his best mate, who he’d loved before he knew what the word really meant. It was ‘just’ a date, actually, their first one, though neither of them was calling it that. And suddenly he was agonizing over what to wear when meeting Seamus for a hot butterbeer. Debating how to greet him, too: with their usual manly one-armed hug, or with a kiss, one that would get Seamus all pliant and breathless the way he’d been last time?

And more than that, how was Seamus feeling abut what happened the last time? Did he go home and freak out, wondering what the fuck he’d got himself into? Was he going to tell Dean that it had all been a mistake, that he needed more time, or it hadn’t been what he thought it was?

His letters hadn’t been much help. They were more frequent than before but that wasn’t saying much. They were more frequent than they’d come during the typical summer between their school years, but after so many months’ silence, it was to be expected. There was nothing in the tone to give him a clue; he thought he sensed a note of flirtation, but it was always so hard to tell with Seamus, which is why he’d driven him mad for so many years, possibly. The trouble was that Dean was just terrified to keep his hopes up, not when they’d been raised so high and dashed so completely the day after the battle.  
 __  
But he kissed you. With tongue. He kissed you and rubbed up against you and looked like he’d been hit with a Bludger after. And that smile. That one you’d never seen before. The one you’re never gonna forget.  
  
Dean tried to steady his shaking hands as he buttoned up his shirt, wrapped a scarf around his neck and picked up his winter coat. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of his dorm into the unknown.

He never ought to have doubted his heart. Seamus hadn’t been content to wait inside the Three Broomsticks as planned. Instead, he was at the head of the main street in Hogsmeade, grinning from ear to ear and bouncing on the balls of his feet as he spotted Dean. Dean felt his heart constrict at the sight, and it took a moment to catch his breath.

“Hey, man,” he said, a stupid grin on his face as Seamus launched himself toward him, stopping mere inches away from him. For the first time, it occurred to Dean that a kiss of greeting was probably a bad idea, at least in present company and on a crowded street. And he hated that, because he was dying to touch Seamus in a way that properly expressed the emotion that was swelling up inside him.

“You got taller, you wanker,” Seamus said, nudging him in the elbow as they both turned to walk the street together.

Seamus was his touchstone, and walking beside him seemed to make everything right all of a sudden, for so many reasons. He started to turn toward the pub, but Seamus stopped him. “Three Broomsticks was full up, no matter how much I tried to charm Rosmerta. Have to settle for the Hog’s Head, I’m afraid.”

“Full up?” Dean asked, taken aback. He could see an empty table or three through the window, and for that matter, when had Seamus objected to drinking standing up, anyway? “Looks like they’ve got room, at least to me.”

“Aye, well, there’s a meeting of the Board of Governors,” Seamus explained. “And they want the best, of course. But Aberforth swore he gave me his cleanest room. It’s not bad, actually. I’ve been cleaning it up a bit meself.”

Dean was having trouble finding his voice, and when it finally came, it wasn’t much more than a whisper. “You got…a room? _A bedroom?”_

“Are ye daft? Of course I did. Not gonna snog you in the middle of the street, am I? Not that we didn’t already do that…sort of.”

‘Snogging,” Dean breathed, a bit relieved and a bit disappointed. Well, Seamus had said he wanted to take things slowly, hadn’t he?

Seamus grinned. “Ye didna think I was that easy, did you, mate? Not until the third date, that’s my rule, just as me mam taught me. And you’d better buy me flowers, too.”

“You arse,” Dean, said, his laughter coming from deep in his chest.

Seamus’ next words seemed a bit less certain, actually, as if he wasn’t sure of the reaction he’d get or he was embarrassed to admit it. “I’ve got lunch up there, and a bottle of whiskey, and we can bring up pints, and send for more, I just…There’s a lot I want to say, and talk about, and ...I reckon I didn’t want an audience, you know?”

Dean’s heart was in his throat and he swallowed with a very great effort. “Yeah, I know,” he said quietly.

“Can’t imagine how you held all this in for as long as you did,” Seamus said, meeting his eyes. “It just…sort of eats you up, not being able to talk to anyone about it, not being able to talk to each other, really.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean repeated, and reached out as if he was going to take Seamus hand but thought better of it.

“So, about that room-” he said, and Seamus grinned in response, quickening his pace as they made their way to the dodgy side of Hogsmeade.

He expected people to stare at them as they made their way to the staircase, but if anybody was, they weren’t making it obvious. The room itself was nothing to write home about, but considering the rest of the place, it really wasn’t bad. It was also apparent that Seamus had gone to some effort, and Dean was touched. There was food that clearly hadn’t come from Aberforth’s kitchen, and a cheerful fire going in the corner.

Dean strode to the window, watching the students as they avoided the snowflakes that were just beginning fall softly. He turned to Seamus, dropping his bag on the floor next to the window. The bed was between them, probably normal-sized as pub beds went, but looming quite large in his mind. Possibly Seamus’ too, Dean supposed.

It was covered in a faded patchwork quilt, and it actually looked almost inviting. Dean tried not to think of what might lurk underneath, however. The bright colours might have hidden any number of frightening things.

Seamus cleared his throat, and Dean snapped back to attention. “So, would you like a drink or something?”

Dean relaxed a bit. “Yeah, mate, that’d be…maybe something to steady my hands. Can’t believe how fucking nervous I am.”

Seamus snorted. “Aye, man. I hear that.”

“Seamus, I-“ Dean started, and he then he stopped, wondering what he meant to say. He was nervous and Seamus was nervous and that was probably a good thing. It meant that they both realized this really mattered.

Instead, he took off his coat and threw it onto the chair by the window. He was starting on his scarf when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. One moment Seamus was across the bed, ostensibly turning to pour a drink, and the next minute he was on Dean, all arms and legs and lips and tongue and Dean felt a roaring in his ears, or maybe it was that brilliant sound Seamus had made as he leapt. For a moment, he was stunned into immobility, but he got his bearings soon enough and held him tightly, trying to absorb the warmth of his body.

He maneuvered Seamus over to the bed, lowering them both to the mattress. He had to calm his racing heart somehow, or he’d be pushing Seamus farther than he was prepared to go. But he didn’t want to, that was the trouble. He wanted to tear Seamus’ clothes off and touch and taste, and…

And anyway, who jumped on whom, for that matter? Seamus didn’t seem to be uncertain about this. Dean gave in, just a little, pinning Seamus to the mattress, propping himself up on his hands to start licking his way down Seamus’ neck, slipping long fingers under the hem of Seamus’ shirt and tracing circles over his stomach. Stomachs were a safe enough choice, right? Going up seemed too much like feeling a girl up at the moment, but going lower…that was something else entirely. And besides, he had his crotch pressed up against Seamus,’ and his cock was clearly quite interested in the proceedings. It’d be a shame to stop all that, wouldn’t it?

Seamus’ stomach had clenched in response to his touch, and he’d sucked in a breath, raising a leg _(maybe on purpose?)_ to maximize the contact.

_“Fuck,”_ Dean muttered under his breath, and it was almost too much, this urgency, this perfect alignment of their bodies. It felt too good, too strong, and he hardly recognized this needy, greedy person who just wanted to take, to _feel_ when there was so much they needed to work through first. Or did they? The last time they spoke, Seamus had insisted he wanted to ease into it, and Dean’s conscience was buzzing in his ear.

“Shay, you’re killing me,” he said. “Never imagined you’d…my head is spinning.”

Seamus’ body tensed underneath him and he threw his head back, groaning and exposing his throat to Dean, tempting him further.

“Aye, mate, it’s just…” He rolled over onto his side, running his hands through his hair and breathing heavily. “How he hell did I miss this all this time?” he asked. “Ever since last month…or maybe it was a bit before this—I mean, you’ve never been out of my mind much, but you were just there, you know, mixed in with the everyday things like my school bag or my toothbrush. Never gave it much thought. I mean—I thought about you, of course, but I never thought about _you._ And now you’re _everything_ and I can’t do a blessed thing without you being in front of my eyes, in my ears, even when you’re not really there. I’m feeling all twitchy, like I’m late for a dose of potion and it fucking hurts not having you around, you know?

“I know,” Dean said, sitting up and throwing his legs off the side of the bed. “Believe me, I know.”

Rising from the bed with a noisy squeak, he went to the bottle, pouring a shot and knocking it back. Last year, he might have choked over it, but his time with Ted had improved his ability to handle liquor. He could feel the alcohol as it hit his bloodstream, relaxing him, warming his limbs.

Pouring another shot and yet another for Seamus, he made his way back to the bed. “Cheers,” he said, and Seamus tapped his glass against Deans, grinning.

“I should be insulted, man. The very least you could do is say, ‘To us,’ after you’ve turned down an offer of me body. Bit more of this sort of thing and I’ll be thinking you’ve stopped fancying me.”

Dean laughed, reaching for Seamus’ hand and laying it deliberately on his flies. Seamus fingers curled around him automatically. “I fancy you. A few more minutes of that and you’ve have had trouble walking, trust me.”

It had been the wrong thing to say, apparently, for Seamus’ face had reddened then gone pale, and he looked away.

Dean frowned, wishing he could take it back. He moved over to the table of food and picked up a pastie, the scent reminding him of dozens of Hogsmeade days like this one, sharing one of Rosmerta’s pies as they wandered from shop to shop. He wondered if Seamus had been trying to be sentimental. Or romantic. He couldn’t help snorting as he thought it.

Carrying one over to Seamus, he handed it to him, letting his fingers brush his friend’s as he passed it on. “Told you,” he said. “You’re safe from me. Won’t do anything you want to do. It was a joke, mate.”

Seamus smiled and exhaled a bit. “But you do want to…I mean, eventually. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? And I just don’t…”

Dean leant down, trying to catch his friend’s eyes. “There’s lots of things we can do, you know. I had no idea how much there was, but I’m beginning to get an idea.”

“Catching up on queer porn, are you, mate?”

Dean laughed wryly. “No. Well, yeah, but that wasn’t my idea, actually. Sort of got talked into it, and it was horrifying. Enlightening, though, which was the point, I suppose.”

Seamus’ eyes widened. “Who’ve you been looking at porn with? You’ve been talking to someone? About _this?_ ”

Too late, Dean realized what a mistake he’d made and he bit his lip. No help for it, though, and he really didn’t want to lie, or even withhold information. “I…er, over the summer. I mean; I reckoned it’d be better to see. If it was just you, I mean. So there was somebody I met—at the shore, on holiday. He sort of liked the idea, you know, that I’d never…”

Seamus looked stricken and Dean felt defensive. “I mean, I had to _know,_ didn’t I? And you…you were something that was never gonna happen.”

_“You said_ …you said that it had nothing to do with bits. You said it was just me.”

Oh, why oh why had he said anything? Or better yet, why couldn’t he have waited, just a few months? Dean tried to remind himself how he’d felt after he left the castle and returned to his family. It had seemed even lonelier than the year in hiding had, because no one around him had any idea what he’d been through. And there was that complete absence of the hope he’d carried with him on the run. “Oh, come off it, Seamus. Don’t tell me you didn’t go and shag as many birds as possible this summer trying to prove your masculinity. I know you better than you think, mate. My guess’d be four, at least. _Seven_ if you started playing with the band again.

Seamus had the decency to look guilty, at least, though he didn’t bother trying to defend himself. After a long silence, he looked back up. “And…?”

Dean shook his head. And what?”

“And…how was it?” The look on Seamus’ face, the confusion in his eyes, was something that bothered Dean. A lot.

“It wasn’t you. It was all right, it was brilliant in a way, but it wasn’t _you._ Had a better time with Luna, actually, because…well I liked her. This bloke was…exhausting…”

Seamus looked at him as if he’d made a joke, and he supposed he had, though not intentionally.

“Not _that_ way, I just mean switched on all the time. Playacting at being something. Trying too hard, maybe. The way he walked and talked, the way he was always looking past me. He took me out and it was like I was a prize or something. You know, like he was wearing a sign that he’d recruited me into some sort queer club. “

Seamus snorted, though Dean saw a bit of something in his eyes that might have been jealousy or even pain.

“I just…I mean, I thought that with everything you said, that I would be…”

“You were. Or you did. You’re the first person who ever made me feel…that way,” Dean said. “And I hope you understand...when we…what we did, last month…that was and still is the most amazing thing I ever felt. Besides, like I said, there’s a million different things to do. I’m sure we could come up with lots of firsts together. Like maybe er…Well, you said you didn’t want me to…I mean that was his thing. He really liked it. A lot. So he never did it to me. Didn’t even ask. I’d let _you,_ though.”

Seamus reddened again, closing his eyes and chewing off his thumbnail.

“Not today, maybe,” Dean added hurriedly. “But someday. Seems a big thing, at least for you and me. We would work up to it. But I could make you feel good. I’d really like that.”

Seamus was watching him intently, and Dean felt his heart in his throat as he waited. This was all going to take some considering--to work out how the dynamics of their years of friendship could transform into a working relationship. They were both used to being the pursuer, and there was a fine line between being aggressive and being pushy. Or he thought so, anyway.

But it was hard _not_ to push, seeing him like this and having wanted him for so long.

Whatever was going through Seamus’ mind, though, he seemed to have worked through it, because he set aside the untouched pie and began unbuttoning his shirt. Dean was afraid he was going to bite through his own lip; he was trying so hard to remain still. When Seamus had stripped down to his pants, he looked at Dean expectantly, and Dean just gaped at him, wondering what he wanted.

Seamus finally smiled, though he looked a bit nervous. “What was it you said about making me feel good? Did ye have something specific in mind, then?”

Dean finally remembered to breathe, and it came out something like a sob as he clambered over to Seamus, wondering where to touch first. The face—that seemed like a good idea—he knew it almost as well as he did his own, and he pulled Seamus close for a kiss. This one was slower and might have had a better technique to it, but it was no less desperate.

Seamus was feeling bolder, apparently, for his hands were moving over Dean’s chest, making quick work of the buttons on his shirt and then spreading it open, stroking bare skin as if it were something fine and beautiful. Dean wondered if his heart was going to burst from his chest, it was beating so hard, and he was sure that Seamus could feel it. And anyway, why was he so afraid to touch?

Everything he had dreamed of touching, that he’d tried not to look at but saw every time he closed his eyes was his to explore. He closed his eyes, letting his hands cover Seamus back, tracing the bumps of his spine and the ridges of wiry muscle underneath his skin. It was so much better than he’d imagined. And Seamus’ mouth, his familiar face pressed so close, his tongue tracing the inside of Dean’s lip, his teeth, nipping—Dean was drowning in sensation and they’d hardly done a thing, really. He meant to change that, though.

With a groan, he pushed Seamus back against the pillow, making his way back down his neck, letting his tongue trace the sinew, tasting the spot where Seamus’ pulse fluttered. Had he actually done that to him? Apparently so, because he had the pleasure of feeling the moan as it came up Seamus’ throat, the very sound that had haunted him so many nights from the next bed, he’d been desperate to know what Seamus was doing to himself to cause it. Now he’d caused it himself, hadn’t he?

Seamus had slid his hands around to Dean’s back, and Dean was close to moaning himself.

Gathering courage, he kissed lower, uncertain whether Seamus would enjoy the same sort of attention to his nipples that a girl might. No harm in trying, he thought, and got quite an interesting reaction from Seamus as he let his tongue circle one and then drew it between his lips. Seamus swore softly underneath his breath and thrust against Dean’s body, and Dean returned the movement in kind, his body responding seemingly of its own accord. Lord, what he _wanted,_ what he _needed,_ and he suspected that given the smallest bit of encouragement, Seamus would be his for the taking. Or the giving. He wasn’t sure quite how it was going to work.

Or maybe he was, and he was just being a bloody Hufflepuff about it. He certainly had no issues with the acts themselves, he was just afraid that he would somehow be too eager and frighten Seamus off. Which was pretty stupid, actually, because Seamus tended to think with his cock more than his brain, and everyone knew that. So if Dean could only engage his cock, his brain would follow meekly, wouldn’t it? Or at least his brain would take a long time to catch on, which had to be a good thing.

Dean let his mouth creep lower, peppering kisses over Seamus’ ribcage and using his tongue to dip into his navel, making Seamus spine arch and bring all that taut flesh even closer, driving Dean mad. He was so focused on each delicious bit of Seamus that he was discovering close up that he never really considered his destination until it quite literally reared up to meet him, poking through the gap in Seamus’ pants in an entirely too friendly manner.

Not that there was ever any doubt that he would be compelled to taste, to wrap his lips around what was more than he’d expected to result from his untrained efforts, but was gratifying, all the same. He’d seen Seamus in this state more times than he could count and always frowned as he’d attributed it to Lavender’s habit of fiddling with the fourth button on her shirt, or Ginny’s bum as she bent forward on her broom or Parvati’s eyes or the way that Hermione used to suck the bottom of her quill when an Arithmancy problem perplexed her. But it wasn’t any of them that had Seamus this turned on—it was _his_ lips and _his_ hands and his body was pressing Seamus’ body into the ancient mattress, hard muscle and gangly limbs and desire sinking into musty feathers.

So maybe it had been a compelling impulse, but he’d never imagined that it would feel so bloody right to have Seamus’ cock sliding in and out of his lips, teasing the back of his throat, or to be overcome by the scent of Seamus in such a concentrated area, or to have Seamus hands gripping his hair almost to the point of pain.

He hadn’t expected to feel this power, to feel Seamus utterly destroyed underneath him, whimpering and shivering and turning Dean’s name into a song or a chant or something and then finally shouting as he fell apart and lost control within Dean’s mouth. He hadn’t expected be so shaken by the whole thing.

Seamus, on the other hand, seemed as if he never planned on moving again, and he looked positively decadent there, arms and legs all askew, sweaty and panting. He finally groaned, reaching out blindly to touch Dean. “You….you… _bloody buggering fuck!_ ” he said, and Dean had to shake his head at the situation.

“No buggering,” he said, laughing softly. “I thought we agreed. Which pretty much rules out fucking, unless you’ve got a better way of doing it.”

Seamus laughed out loud and propped himself up on one elbow. “Aye, no buggering. Don’t think I could manage it anyway.” He swallowed, and seemed to grow a bit more serious as he looked Dean over. “So, where’d you learn to do that, then?”

“I didn’t,” Dean said. “I mean I haven’t…” Looking at Seamus was compounding the problem he was having, and he shifted slightly to get more comfortable.

Seamus seemed pleased and the look he was giving Dean had something more than jealousy averted or speculation in it. He grinned, and Dean felt his heart skip a beat.

“My turn,” he said, and Dean’s throat went dry as Seamus crawled over to him and coaxed him back against the bed with kisses. Glorious kisses. Rough, sloppy, I-don’t-give-a-shite-that-you’ve-had-my-cock-in-your-mouth kisses. Kisses that had Dean wondering why Seamus didn’t have a line of fellow students following him around the school begging for a chance to do it again, given what Dean knew about the extent of Seamus’ kissing experience at school.

And that wasn’t even taking into account the way that Seamus hands felt on him when his skin was sensitive to the point of pain from arousal. Seemingly innocuous places on his body were suddenly brought to painful awareness, as Seamus made dispensed with his shirt and tortured him with clever fingers and then hot, moist lips. It hadn’t occurred to him that Seamus would be as interested in his body as he’d been in Seamus,’ but it was fairly clear that Seamus was enjoying himself immensely.

He went to work on Dean’s flies and raised an eyebrow as Dean’s cock sprang free from behind the zipper, and it was only then that is apparent self-assuredness faltered. Curiosity, though, that was written all over his face, and Dean nearly lost it completely at the first uncertain caress of Seamus’ fingers. “Like that, yes” Dean said, groaning and arching off the bed. “Please, don’t stop,” he added, as Seamus tugged down his pants and wrapped his fingers around it. There was that look of concentration that Seamus used to get in Charms class when he was determined not to mess up yet again, and there was wonder and possibly a bit of amusement, too. Well, it probably was a bit absurd, Dean supposed, to be stroking your best mate’s prick in broad daylight on a lumpy bed in a dingy room when you’ve known each other for seven years. Or maybe it _was_ silly to be so pleased about it, but things weren’t easy in Dean’s mind to work out when he was having trouble stringing thoughts together at all. It just felt so bloody _right,_ and he covered Seamus hand with one of his own, looking down at the contrast between dark and light and dark. They were a sodding zebra, weren’t they, and wouldn’t that have made an interesting thing to draw? Maybe something abstract, something that would have people turning their heads to see if it was a zebra or something somewhat obscene, and then they’d wonder if it was just their dirty mind playing tricks.

And then Dean wasn’t thinking at all, because Seamus had looked up from their joined hands and his eyes were locked with Dean’s and there was something so intense and scared and overwhelmed in them that Dean wanted to wrap his arms around Seamus and shield him from it. Though maybe now Seamus would really understand that this wasn’t playing around, that this was _huge_ and was going to change everything and possibly ruin everything, but there was a chance that it could be the best thing to ever happen to them. And then Seamus kissed him again, and Dean fought the urge to shut his eyes tight even though Seamus’ face was so close it was blurred. He choked out Seamus’ name and came all over their joined hands, and Seamus shivered and kissed Dean’s forehead, murmuring one of those Irish words he’d never bothered translating. It could have been swearing, but Dean thought it sounded like an endearment.

“I love you,” Dean said, his voice sounding small and shaken, and he could hear Seamus as he swallowed and he could see the pulse at his throat going at Firebolt speed.

“Love you, too, man,” Seamus said, making Dean shudder one last time, seeing things through a blur of tears. This was everything he’d ever wanted, and he could only pray that he wouldn’t somehow muck things up. 


End file.
